by Ron McFarland

    for Robert Lowell

    Out here， we don't talk about culture，

    we think we are. We nurtured¹ Ezra Pound

    who ran from us like hell

    and never came back. You

    never came at all. You

    will never know how clever

    we never are out here.

    You never drank red beer.

    You never popped a grouse²

    under a blue spruce just because it was there.

    Tell us about Schopenhauer and your friends

    and fine old family. We left ours

    at the Mississippi， have no names left

    to drop. We spend our time

    avoiding Californians and waiting

    for the sage³ to bloom， and when it does

    we miss the damn things half the time.

    When a stranger comes in we smile

    and say， "Tell us about yourself."

    Then we listen real close.

    But you would say， "I've said what I have to say."

    Too subtle， perhaps， for a can of beer，

    too Augustan for the Snake River breaks.

    But how do you know this wasn't just

    the place to die？ Why not have those

    kinfolk ship your bones out here， just

    for irony's sake？ We keep things plain

    and clear because of the mountains.

    Our mythology⁴ comes down to a logger

    stirring his coffee with his thumb.

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